Because I Said So by Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
06/22/2009
THERE are a lot of cemeteries in the world that are tourist attractions because of their famous inhabitants. Once a celebrity is buried in a particular cemetery, expect it to gain some sort of fame, or notoriety. After all, a dead celebrity is still a celebrity. They still get hounded by very live fans who still can’t get enough of their fame. I remember reading about where the great Marilyn Monroe is buried – a cemetery where, everyday since her death, a flood of red roses are delivered and deposited on her grave. If I remember right, it was one of her husbands, Joe DiMaggio, who made such an arrangement. Obviously, death did them part but DiMaggio’s roses are there, for Marilyn’s very dead nostrils to appreciate 24/7, as she reposed in eternal sleep.
There are cemeteries in New York which are museums by themselves and where the famous lie in eternal rest, pomp and glory – given the ostentatious mausoleums they are housed in. Woodlawn is one such tourist attraction of a cemetery, where the industrialist and arts patron Augustus Juilliard is buried, the man behind the famous school of art and dance. In Green-Wood, another cemetery for the rich and famous, there is even a tour bus (or should it be called a tour train because that was how it looked like to me), and its renowned residents include the very dead Samuel Morse of the Morse code fame, and F.A.O. Schwarz, the creator of that famous toy store – the one featured in the Tom Hanks movie, BIG. In the cemetery of Paris, countless poets, authors, statesmen and rock stars (notably Jim Morrison) are interred, and tourists flock to their graves – perhaps to gawk, to stare, or hopefully to say a prayer for their eternal repose. There’s another cemetery in Paris that is equally famous, though it’s a pet cemetery, and it is where the remains of the great movie actor-dog Rin Tin Tin are buried.
It’s unimaginable though that these cemeteries will serve as living quarters for families. For one thing, they are very much gated and guarded, and anyone staying beyond visiting hours is bound to be shown the way out.
Here in Manila, our cemeteries also attract the living, but not just as visitors. A good number of people who visited such cemeteries came to stay, and to date are still there. They live with the dead. A newspaper article tells me that 10,000 families live in the North Cemetery. That’s a number not so easy to forget.
But then, that is a drop in the bucket compared to the poor families living in the cemeteries of Riyadh and Cairo. A quick surf in the Internet revealed that as much as two million families live in Cairo’s cemetery, while there is almost half that in Riyadh. Habib Trabelsi, the journalist who wrote the article in the Net, even mentioned a 33-member family of mostly children who call the cemetery their home.
That brought back to memory a family who lives in a Makati cemetery. That cemetery also has its own residents of the living kind. In one of my commercial shoots, I met one such family whose son we featured in a public service ad, and when I was told that we would be picking him up from the cemetery, I took a double take to make sure that I heard right. Of course I did, and on that day I met Junior* and his family.
Junior was in grade school then, studying in a nearby public school a few blocks away from the cemetery. He’s lived there all his life, and it’s not because they have a sepulturero in the family either. When we talked, he didn’t find anything incongruous in the fact that he and his family use a tombstone for a dining table during the day and as a bed during the night. Of course, he doesn’t bring home any of his friends for a lot of playdates or sleepovers, and neither does he talk much about his address. Baka po matakot sila, he told me, when I asked if his classmates knew where he lived. As for Junior himself, he is not an easy child to scare, for he plays alongside crypts and mausoleums, not caring how many skeletons are actually six feet under his feet. He talked quite casually about how lucky their family is for having an electric fan and a rice cooker, (they have electricity—illegally, I suppose) for their neighbors (the living ones, that is) have so much less. In fact, I realized from Junior’s musings that like an ordinary neighborhood, meaning one that is not cohabited by the dead right next door – much less right under you, even the living residents in their cemetery are subjected to and live with the same kind of inggitan, tsismisan, intrigahan and, happily, tulungan as the more regular neighborhoods you and I live in.
I remember that Junior looked wistfully at a grander tomb that we passed by when we brought him home. It was occupied by another family of tomb dwellers. The tomb was owned by a richer family – richer than the one who built the tomb that Junior’s family lives in. I was right when I assumed that Junior doesn’t even know the family who owns the tomb he dwells in. But his tomb isn’t so bad, Junior assured us, as it is big enough for him, his mother, lola and sister. His mother operated some sort of a sari-sari store inside the premises – and I jokingly asked: Do you get enough clientele, seeing as a lot of the people in the neighborhood wouldn’t have any use for yosi, mantika or kendi? Junior laughingly reassured me that, of course, they don’t sell to the dead; it’s the living that buy their wares, whether their own neighbors or the live ones that come to visit.
I discovered soon after that Junior hates three dates in the calendar: Oct. 31, Nov. 1 and Nov. 2. Whereas other people would find it commendable, Junior laments the fact that religiously every year, the family of their dead landlord (I use this term loosely, though Junior’s family doesn’t pay him any rent), descend on their cemetery during those days, and they do not only come to visit or pray; they stay the entire three days and two nights. They also come to visit on their dead relative’s birthday and death anniversary, though happily for Junior, that doesn’t happen too often. On those dates, Junior and his family keep a lookout for their arrival, and as soon as they are spotted, the tomb dwellers scamper away to safety, having emptied the tomb of their own personal belongings days before the aforementioned dates. Then they have to scrounge for living quarters somewhere else, even as they pray the whole time for the living descendants of their tomb owner to leave as early as possible.
These people were so hard up that they had to move in with the dead. I met more of them that day. Junior introduced me to their next-tomb neighbors, a wiry, browned-by-the-elements little old lady and her apo, who told me that when lola was evicted from their apartment they had nowhere else to go and so came here. But the old lady obviously wanted us to cut short our conversation then, because it was already noon. A man in shorts passed by, obviously another tomb dweller, and he shouted at her merrily, Nay, anong ulam mo, and she shouted back, Ano pa, eh di pasabog. Catching her look at us from the corner of her eye, I realized that she was embarrassed for having admitted to such poverty. The poor are sometimes prouder than you and I. Taking that as our cue, we quickly said goodbye to the old woman so she could get on with her midday meal.
At the end of our shoot, Junior and his family received quite a lot of goodies from our production team, aside from some cash money. He was beside himself with glee. Only he told us to be very quiet about it, as it’s not good to announce your good fortune in their kind of neighborhood. Oh, I joked again, Baka magising ang mga patay, kaya ayaw mo mag-ingay? But Junior seriously said, Hindi po kami sa patay takot, kundi sa buhay.
That cemetery was definitely no Woodlawn or Green-Wood. It was, and is, more in the league of the cemeteries in Cairo and Riyadh where the poorest of the poor have decided, that for them to go on living, they must live with the dead. That day, we left that cemetery knowing that the help we gave Junior could not have lasted a week. Though we heard him tell his lola that for a few days, they wouldn’t have to eat rice and pasabog – the salt they throw on top of their plates of rice during meal times.
To this day, I can’t get the image of Junior and his family out of my mind, as they partake of their meals, with a tombstone for a dining table, eating from plates set right on top of their very dead landlord, and filling their stomachs with food freshly scooped from a rice cooker that is just a step away from their very dead neighbors.
(*names have been changed to protect individual privacy)
Boots ma. Garcia-sison is a wife, mother, soccer groupie, and advertising director and writer, more on some days than others. It was her son who thought of her column’s name. (For comments, please text 09178411062.)
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
My mother's memories
my mother is 87 years old. She has begun scratching the top of her head , almost non-stop, and has surreptitiously started plucking her hair off the site where her fontanel was. During the times i have caught her, she has blatantly denied doing so, believing that i am too myopic to notice what she's been up to. Seeing that very conspicuous bald patch now, i realize, at her age, she must feel entitled already to a little dash of craziness.
She was eighteen years old when the Japanese came to occupy Manila, and she recounts the days of running to bomb shelters when dogfights thundered over their heads. She remembers a young Japanese officer, one who stopped a foot soldier from robbing her of her ring. She had pretended that the ring was too tight to come off her finger and so the soldier had taken out his knife and her hair had stood at their ends at the realization that the man was going to end up with more than just a ring. When the Japanese officer suddenly appeared from nowhere and slapped that foot soldier to submission, my mother was grateful, and bowed low to that officer , though she didn't stay to chat or even say thanks, she ran all the way home, frightened that the foot solider would exact his vengeance. This incident she remembers with vivid clarity, together with the fact that my ninong's wife died during that war, and that my own father was conscripted by the japanese to fetch them water so they could all bathe.
My mother is old. she was mother to a student activist that she feared would die during the martial law years , but would live and migrate to canada, abandoning the cause she walked the streets for when first world opportunity presented itself. and just years ago, my mother recovered from a hypoglycemic attack, to live another 10 years, and to bury both her husband and her fifty year old son. She has shrunk in size, and her hands and face have become wizened. Though she was always small , she was never puny. I remember her feistiness, and her opinionatedness. Perhaps these two qualities were what precisely helped her reach her age today, as she defied diabetes, hypertension, even a heart problem she's nursed for decades.
My mom is Methuselah, I thought, just a few days ago during the Christmas holidays, when i was giving her a bath, after cajoling , coaxing and finally blackmailing her into stepping inside the bathroom.
I was high pitched in the bathroom. when she turned to me and asked why i was angry, i really didn't have an answer.
She's started walking nights. Fully awake, she was at the foot of my marital bed, at three o clock in the morning, and my husband and i were stunned into wakefulness, hearing her voice calling out my name. Rosario, Rosario, where is your Aunty Puring? I sat up in bed, and i snapped at her that Aunty Puring is long dead. No, my mother shook her head, she is in Bataan, and then she hobbled away and left, mumbling that Puring should have come to visit a long time ago.
I couldn't sleep after that. My son arrived at his school really early that day.
My mother didn't even notice it was Christmas. She has no fondness anymore for this Christmas or the Christmas before that when my sister came home from Canada.
But she remembers the family's first ever Christmas ... the very first Christmas she stopped buying a real pine tree and opted for a silvery-tinsel wrapped kind...the Christmas my father opened our house to the whole neighborhood.
She was eighteen years old when the Japanese came to occupy Manila, and she recounts the days of running to bomb shelters when dogfights thundered over their heads. She remembers a young Japanese officer, one who stopped a foot soldier from robbing her of her ring. She had pretended that the ring was too tight to come off her finger and so the soldier had taken out his knife and her hair had stood at their ends at the realization that the man was going to end up with more than just a ring. When the Japanese officer suddenly appeared from nowhere and slapped that foot soldier to submission, my mother was grateful, and bowed low to that officer , though she didn't stay to chat or even say thanks, she ran all the way home, frightened that the foot solider would exact his vengeance. This incident she remembers with vivid clarity, together with the fact that my ninong's wife died during that war, and that my own father was conscripted by the japanese to fetch them water so they could all bathe.
My mother is old. she was mother to a student activist that she feared would die during the martial law years , but would live and migrate to canada, abandoning the cause she walked the streets for when first world opportunity presented itself. and just years ago, my mother recovered from a hypoglycemic attack, to live another 10 years, and to bury both her husband and her fifty year old son. She has shrunk in size, and her hands and face have become wizened. Though she was always small , she was never puny. I remember her feistiness, and her opinionatedness. Perhaps these two qualities were what precisely helped her reach her age today, as she defied diabetes, hypertension, even a heart problem she's nursed for decades.
My mom is Methuselah, I thought, just a few days ago during the Christmas holidays, when i was giving her a bath, after cajoling , coaxing and finally blackmailing her into stepping inside the bathroom.
I was high pitched in the bathroom. when she turned to me and asked why i was angry, i really didn't have an answer.
She's started walking nights. Fully awake, she was at the foot of my marital bed, at three o clock in the morning, and my husband and i were stunned into wakefulness, hearing her voice calling out my name. Rosario, Rosario, where is your Aunty Puring? I sat up in bed, and i snapped at her that Aunty Puring is long dead. No, my mother shook her head, she is in Bataan, and then she hobbled away and left, mumbling that Puring should have come to visit a long time ago.
I couldn't sleep after that. My son arrived at his school really early that day.
My mother didn't even notice it was Christmas. She has no fondness anymore for this Christmas or the Christmas before that when my sister came home from Canada.
But she remembers the family's first ever Christmas ... the very first Christmas she stopped buying a real pine tree and opted for a silvery-tinsel wrapped kind...the Christmas my father opened our house to the whole neighborhood.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
what typhoon emong destroyed in Bolinao
Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
WHAT TYPHOON EMONG DESTROYED IN BOLINAO
I was in Bolinao, Pangasinan for a long weekend. The drive took eight hours, but it was the last hour that was the most stressful, because aside from the fact that we have been cooped up in the car for almost the whole day already, my son had been barking
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? ” ---- non-stop, for the last twenty minutes. At his 500th “Are we there yet, “ I came close to snapping. Till I noticed that we were driving past a not so pretty sight.
Our car passed more than a dozen houses with no rooftops. Two or three houses were still standing but bereft of walls and ceilings. Big trees have been uprooted and countless coconut trees were shorn of their branches and leaves. What happened here? was the question my husband and I dared not voice out, so as not to infect our son with our growing discomfort.
The less intrepid would have turned back, and would have charged the whole trip, especially the booking’s full payment to experience.
But intrepid is my husband’s middle name. Rolling down his window, he asked a local how far it was to our resort and I was even surprised when the man cheerfully told us, just two more kilometers. So we pushed on. In light of everything we have just seen, I wondered how the resort we were headed for could still live up to its name that literally means “the door to the sun.”
When we arrived, it was 530 pm in the afternoon. We had left the city at 930 that morning. Worse, it started to rain.
But then, the downpour lightened into a soft drizzle, and left a mist over the whole place that then slowly revealed to us its beauty.
How surprising to find a piece of Mediterranean inspired heaven at the westernmost tip of Pangasinan. A dip in the pool easily washed away the exhaustion of the road trip. The people were especially warm, and the accommodations pleasing. For the entire 3 day holiday, we were surrounded by nature. The foliage was a sea of green, the sky cerulean, the beach soft beige, and the waters, shades lighter than sapphire. Serenity lives here, I thought. But reality took a bite every time we passed a cabana that used to be the game room. To say the least, it needed a rehab, and fast. I realized that this place was not spared after all, by whatever caused the wrecked homes we saw the first day we arrived.
To their credit, not one of the service staff made us feel the effects of the disaster they just survived. They were all cheery and welcoming. In fact, talking to the resort’s people was especially easy. Given that all Filipinos after all are a most hospitable lot---we readily smile and accept friendship with no qualms or misgivings--- still, the
resort’s people had more than the usual eagerness to please and serve. They readily explained why the road we passed was littered with toppled trees and roof-less shelters.
May cyclone po na dumaan dito, the girls at the resort’s café told us. First time po nagka-cyclone dito. But now they can talk about it, even joke about the experience easily. How their own walk- in guests were stranded for two days and how the cyclone literally wiped out the nightlife in this resort town, starting with the newly constructed restaurant at their beach. And how they have to go on without electricity to this date, far longer than they expected.
I know firsthand how it is to survive a typhoon, more so a cyclone. It is a life changing experience. While it’s happening, you literally feel that you can’t do anything about it, that you’re completely in the hands of God. The cyclone that descended on this community raged on for hours. As one of the staff told us, the cyclone stopped suddenly, and for the next few moments, the people of this resort community rejoiced that the worst was over. Only they rejoiced too soon , for the winds started howling again, and continued whipping past at the speed of over 150 kph for another hour or so. The wind not only whistled, the sound was like that a plane droning on and on. I can imagine them all praying for it to stop, and hoping that what was whizzing outside their walls was not the sound of their own rooftops , walls or ceilings.
In its wake, typhoon Emong left people dead, livelihoods demolished and homes in shambles. Can you imagine how stunned these people felt in the aftermath of this devastation?
I can. It’s how I felt when my family went through the same thing. But what hit us was Milenyo, and it happened in 2006.
I still remember what time it was when the rains poured and the wind started its own eerie dirge. It was a few minutes past eleven and the sky roof over my kitchen was the first victim, flying off noisily, only God knows where. I clambered on top of the kitchen counter and tried to nail a tarapal over the opening. But the wind whipped past and along with it flew the tarapal.
The rest happened so fast. Before I knew it, one of the help was shouting---illogically I realized even then, that “Mam, mam, pumapasok na po ang dagat !!!” Dagat ? How can that be, my rational brain asked, but then I realized that at the sight of that roaring flood water, the maid must have thought that the whole of Manila Bay was now flash flooding our village.
I had to wade through flood waters to deposit my son in our neighbor’s house.
I had to do everything because my husband was out of the country. Then the lines went dead and along with it, the electricity. With my cel phone drenched, I had no way of communicating with the outside world.
By some miracle I found an extra cel fone , only to discover that it had no load whatsoever, and I had to text my friend Gina who passed me 500 pesos worth.
With that load I was able to call my sister, the police, friends of the family and everybody else I thought would be able to come and help us.
When I saw that my house was completely submerged in a foot of dark flood water, I had to fight the urge to rant and rave. This thing can’t be happening to me, in this village, right in this house that was a gift from my in-law and my husband. I had to accept the truth that for the first time in my life, our house has been flooded and our properties destroyed. Before the sight of all the photo albums and picture frames swimming around overwhelmed me , before the realization that family tapes of my son’s childhood were soaked with water and dirt, and before I started counting the time, effort and money that went into the computers destroyed and the DVD players and the TVs and the other appliances and fixtures, I had to tell myself to look past this already, to realize that all these are just stuff. What’s done can no longer be undone . I should just let go.
I have let go. I am sure now too that I had lost less , so much less than some of the people of Bolinao who suffered from that cyclone.
On the day we left, the gamehouse of the beach resort has been fully restored. A sure sign that Bolinao has started rebuilding already.
It is resoluteness that started people rebuilding and recreating a new life. This is the resoluteness of a survivor…of one who has gone to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale. This is the kind of resolve that even a typhoon cannot destroy. It’s what I had , and it’s something I have in common with Bolinao and its people.
I know what will help put Bolinao back on its feet will be the generosity of friends and family, and the kindness of strangers. That was how it was for me, and they too will have such blessings. But more than anything else, the resoluteness enables and empowers them… to fully let go…to live through the disaster, move on, and believe and trust that by God’s grace, life can be beautiful again.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE, ADVERTISING DIRECTOR & WRITER , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS , TEXT 09178411062.
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
WHAT TYPHOON EMONG DESTROYED IN BOLINAO
I was in Bolinao, Pangasinan for a long weekend. The drive took eight hours, but it was the last hour that was the most stressful, because aside from the fact that we have been cooped up in the car for almost the whole day already, my son had been barking
“Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet? ” ---- non-stop, for the last twenty minutes. At his 500th “Are we there yet, “ I came close to snapping. Till I noticed that we were driving past a not so pretty sight.
Our car passed more than a dozen houses with no rooftops. Two or three houses were still standing but bereft of walls and ceilings. Big trees have been uprooted and countless coconut trees were shorn of their branches and leaves. What happened here? was the question my husband and I dared not voice out, so as not to infect our son with our growing discomfort.
The less intrepid would have turned back, and would have charged the whole trip, especially the booking’s full payment to experience.
But intrepid is my husband’s middle name. Rolling down his window, he asked a local how far it was to our resort and I was even surprised when the man cheerfully told us, just two more kilometers. So we pushed on. In light of everything we have just seen, I wondered how the resort we were headed for could still live up to its name that literally means “the door to the sun.”
When we arrived, it was 530 pm in the afternoon. We had left the city at 930 that morning. Worse, it started to rain.
But then, the downpour lightened into a soft drizzle, and left a mist over the whole place that then slowly revealed to us its beauty.
How surprising to find a piece of Mediterranean inspired heaven at the westernmost tip of Pangasinan. A dip in the pool easily washed away the exhaustion of the road trip. The people were especially warm, and the accommodations pleasing. For the entire 3 day holiday, we were surrounded by nature. The foliage was a sea of green, the sky cerulean, the beach soft beige, and the waters, shades lighter than sapphire. Serenity lives here, I thought. But reality took a bite every time we passed a cabana that used to be the game room. To say the least, it needed a rehab, and fast. I realized that this place was not spared after all, by whatever caused the wrecked homes we saw the first day we arrived.
To their credit, not one of the service staff made us feel the effects of the disaster they just survived. They were all cheery and welcoming. In fact, talking to the resort’s people was especially easy. Given that all Filipinos after all are a most hospitable lot---we readily smile and accept friendship with no qualms or misgivings--- still, the
resort’s people had more than the usual eagerness to please and serve. They readily explained why the road we passed was littered with toppled trees and roof-less shelters.
May cyclone po na dumaan dito, the girls at the resort’s café told us. First time po nagka-cyclone dito. But now they can talk about it, even joke about the experience easily. How their own walk- in guests were stranded for two days and how the cyclone literally wiped out the nightlife in this resort town, starting with the newly constructed restaurant at their beach. And how they have to go on without electricity to this date, far longer than they expected.
I know firsthand how it is to survive a typhoon, more so a cyclone. It is a life changing experience. While it’s happening, you literally feel that you can’t do anything about it, that you’re completely in the hands of God. The cyclone that descended on this community raged on for hours. As one of the staff told us, the cyclone stopped suddenly, and for the next few moments, the people of this resort community rejoiced that the worst was over. Only they rejoiced too soon , for the winds started howling again, and continued whipping past at the speed of over 150 kph for another hour or so. The wind not only whistled, the sound was like that a plane droning on and on. I can imagine them all praying for it to stop, and hoping that what was whizzing outside their walls was not the sound of their own rooftops , walls or ceilings.
In its wake, typhoon Emong left people dead, livelihoods demolished and homes in shambles. Can you imagine how stunned these people felt in the aftermath of this devastation?
I can. It’s how I felt when my family went through the same thing. But what hit us was Milenyo, and it happened in 2006.
I still remember what time it was when the rains poured and the wind started its own eerie dirge. It was a few minutes past eleven and the sky roof over my kitchen was the first victim, flying off noisily, only God knows where. I clambered on top of the kitchen counter and tried to nail a tarapal over the opening. But the wind whipped past and along with it flew the tarapal.
The rest happened so fast. Before I knew it, one of the help was shouting---illogically I realized even then, that “Mam, mam, pumapasok na po ang dagat !!!” Dagat ? How can that be, my rational brain asked, but then I realized that at the sight of that roaring flood water, the maid must have thought that the whole of Manila Bay was now flash flooding our village.
I had to wade through flood waters to deposit my son in our neighbor’s house.
I had to do everything because my husband was out of the country. Then the lines went dead and along with it, the electricity. With my cel phone drenched, I had no way of communicating with the outside world.
By some miracle I found an extra cel fone , only to discover that it had no load whatsoever, and I had to text my friend Gina who passed me 500 pesos worth.
With that load I was able to call my sister, the police, friends of the family and everybody else I thought would be able to come and help us.
When I saw that my house was completely submerged in a foot of dark flood water, I had to fight the urge to rant and rave. This thing can’t be happening to me, in this village, right in this house that was a gift from my in-law and my husband. I had to accept the truth that for the first time in my life, our house has been flooded and our properties destroyed. Before the sight of all the photo albums and picture frames swimming around overwhelmed me , before the realization that family tapes of my son’s childhood were soaked with water and dirt, and before I started counting the time, effort and money that went into the computers destroyed and the DVD players and the TVs and the other appliances and fixtures, I had to tell myself to look past this already, to realize that all these are just stuff. What’s done can no longer be undone . I should just let go.
I have let go. I am sure now too that I had lost less , so much less than some of the people of Bolinao who suffered from that cyclone.
On the day we left, the gamehouse of the beach resort has been fully restored. A sure sign that Bolinao has started rebuilding already.
It is resoluteness that started people rebuilding and recreating a new life. This is the resoluteness of a survivor…of one who has gone to hell and back, and lived to tell the tale. This is the kind of resolve that even a typhoon cannot destroy. It’s what I had , and it’s something I have in common with Bolinao and its people.
I know what will help put Bolinao back on its feet will be the generosity of friends and family, and the kindness of strangers. That was how it was for me, and they too will have such blessings. But more than anything else, the resoluteness enables and empowers them… to fully let go…to live through the disaster, move on, and believe and trust that by God’s grace, life can be beautiful again.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE, ADVERTISING DIRECTOR & WRITER , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS , TEXT 09178411062.
THE JOwLLIJEEP & THE JOwllibag
Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
LONG LIVE THE JOwLLIJEEP AND THE JOwLLIBAG
Even as more restaurants, cafes and canteens rise in Makati, a great majority of the working population is unmindful and unaffected by their birth.
And no wonder, for the ordinary office worker’s engine still has to run on the same amount of gas--- meaning his pocketbook is still lined with the same budget as last year’s and the year before that--- so you can’t expect him to even glance at new menus with prices that are twice what he’s accustomed to paying.
Obviously, the ones who can afford the tonier places where a person’s bill can cost anywhere from P200.00 upwards will not feel alluded to.( how did I decide that P200 is already expensive ? Well, I simply asked the working girls in the office ---they answered in unison that forking P200 for their midday meal is already too much). I also don’t include the Baon Gang (like myself) who bring packed lunches from home, whether to save their lunch money or simply because they can’t stand not eating their own home cooked meal.
I refer in general to them who are full fledged sometime, one time, or full time patrons of the aluminum colored carinderia on wheels, fondly referred to as the Jowllijeep, and their offerings for take out, nicknamed Jowllibags.
You and I know what the etymology of these names are. The reason they sound familiar, is yes, it’s because we all know who and what they were named after. Filipinos are famed for their puns after all.( The addition of the letter “w” is entirely my own whimsy, in tribute to an officemate’s fondness for pronouncing every word with an “o” with a long “o” (e.g., sowsyal, towgeh, lowmpyah)). All these little monickers are just an expression of the populace’s love affair with these wonderful lifesavers.
Their loyal patrons know these Jowllijeeps and their Jowllibags like the back of their hands.
In fact, to my surprise, after talking to my some-time patron friend Awie, I learned that not all Jowllijeeps are created equal. Awie insists that some Jowllibags are tastier than others. How do you know, I asked him, when you have baon everyday?
You only need to eat it once to know better, he wisely points out.
That opened my eyes to the many other finer points of dining, Jowllijeep style.
Jowlijeeps offer comfort food. A typical outlet offers a very familiar menu. On any given day , chances are they will have rice and adobo, fried chicken, pancit canton, pancit bihon, tocino, liempo, longganisa, fried daing na bangus---all served hot, dripping in vegetable fat and more often than not, real greasy good. You can also expect lumpiang shanghai, lumpiang toge, lumpiang prito, pinakbet, menudo, sinigang, tinola and nilaga and sometimes even kaldereta and pochero.
But no, Virginia, they do not serve sushi and cheesecake in Jowllijeeps. And don’t ask for pasta, you dork, ask for spaghetti and you’ll get it, just don’t be alarmed at how orangey its tomato sauce color is.
Here’s another tip : when you order a Jowllijeep pochero, don’t expect the pochero your mom used to cook for you. The whole business philosophy behind an average Jowllijeep and Jowllibag’s offering is for each dish to look, smell and taste JUST enough like the one we’re familiar with . Everything should JUST be within an inch of the real thing. Let’s use pochero again as an example. The pochero of a regular Jowlijeep has just enough, but never too much, of the required distinguishing ingredients. So you can expect just a token or two of diced carrots and potatoes perhaps, and just enough tomato sauce in there and beef morsels, just so this Jowllijeep version can get away with calling itself pochero.
If a Jowllijeep pochero does not fulfill this very rigid taste test, then that Jowllijeep in question can kiss their patrons goodbye, for working people want value for their hard earned money. They will not hesitate to bring their patronage somewhere else, and in the case of the Jowllijeep patron, to the next Jowllijeep just a few paces down the street.
But again, some Jowllijeeps are better than others. Meaning, their food tastes great, and you won’t care that they cut corners somewhere in the ingredients list or that their food color is on the lurid side.. Once a Jowllijeep has earned a patron’s loyalty, such patrons will defend its cuisine to the death. Do not try to cast aspersions on their dishes, for their loyalists will not stop until they have the last word with you. They will extol the deliciousness of their favorite dish and honor the others they particularly delight with. But in the end, if you refuse to be convinced, in your face will they hurl a statement of such undeniable , incontestible truth, the ultimate argument that will shut you up.
Ano bang nirereklamo mo eh forty pesos lang to? Helllow????
Hello indeed.
A Jowllijeep is very accommodating. You can choose to eat sitting down, standing up or take out (when you choose take out, that ‘s when the Jowllibags come into play). In fact, whether your Jowllijeep is standing next to the street gutter, or to the creek that crosses various Makati streets, you can expect a horde of customers patiently waiting in line to get their orders. Or probably already starting on their next course, standing up.
Para diretso sa tyan, as another Jowlijeep patron-friend told me.
A Jowllijeep can sustain you , from breakfast till dinner, and even your snacks in between. For alongside the huge vats of ulam and kanin are baskets hanging by the counter window, containing snack and junk food of almost every kind. You can also have coffee, soda, an energy drink and juices and iced tea in can, tetra or doypack. And as for dessert , they have jars of candy and chocnut, gum and freshly cut pineapple, and some other fruits in season. If you know how to pick ‘em, you can definitely come away with the sweetest and choicest cuts.
And Jowllijeeps are the most dependable food outlets around. You can depend on them to cook banana cue or camote cue every afternoon in time for merienda,and to have pancit palabok , that orangey colored spaghetti and guinatan . And whatever the weather or time of day, and whether there is a rally for the administration (or against it ), whatever is happening in Makati or even in Malacanang, it will not rock the Jowllijeep establishment. You can expect the Jowllijeep dining experience to go on, the same way you can expect to find a stalwart of every Jowllijeep hanging from its little corner….a little icon that no self-respecting Jowllijeep can be found without : that cigarette lighter tied to a string right where a smoker-patron can spot it, without arousing the desire in that same patron to pocket that cigarette lighter. Reassuringly, there has been no rash and rush of thefts anyway involving cigarette lighters in our Jowllijeeps, even if a piece of string is the only deterrent to the commission of such a crime.
The mother in me had to wonder aloud to my officemate though. How clean is the food offered by these establishments?
My resource person and friend Awie scratched the back of his head. After all, he’s only bought pineapple from these Jowlijeeps, and you can count on one hand the number of times he’s bought ulam from them.(he’s more a member of the Baon Gang like me). But then, he does know everybody in the office who is a Jowllijeep patron, and he points them out, real people I know who have many times indulged in partaking of Jowllibags from Jowllijeeps.
Eh, buhay pa naman kami lahat hanggang ngayon.
What can you say to that?
Now, for the best kept secret on Jowlijeeps in Makati. The one that offers the best liempo, in huge , generous portions for the same reasonable price of forty pesos…. is the Jowllijeep standing on T- - - - - - - - Street. Awie held out both his hands to show me how big that liempo is supposed to be , and I must admit that I gasped in amazement. He also swears they’re really lip smacking good.
My baon bag will take the day off then tomorrow. Race you to that particular Jowllijeep.
I intend to take my liempo out with a Jowllibag. Be sure to leave that cigarette lighter hanging where you found it. Or else you’d be banned by the Society of Jowllijeep Patrons forever and ever, amen.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, TEXT 09205355053/09178411062.
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
LONG LIVE THE JOwLLIJEEP AND THE JOwLLIBAG
Even as more restaurants, cafes and canteens rise in Makati, a great majority of the working population is unmindful and unaffected by their birth.
And no wonder, for the ordinary office worker’s engine still has to run on the same amount of gas--- meaning his pocketbook is still lined with the same budget as last year’s and the year before that--- so you can’t expect him to even glance at new menus with prices that are twice what he’s accustomed to paying.
Obviously, the ones who can afford the tonier places where a person’s bill can cost anywhere from P200.00 upwards will not feel alluded to.( how did I decide that P200 is already expensive ? Well, I simply asked the working girls in the office ---they answered in unison that forking P200 for their midday meal is already too much). I also don’t include the Baon Gang (like myself) who bring packed lunches from home, whether to save their lunch money or simply because they can’t stand not eating their own home cooked meal.
I refer in general to them who are full fledged sometime, one time, or full time patrons of the aluminum colored carinderia on wheels, fondly referred to as the Jowllijeep, and their offerings for take out, nicknamed Jowllibags.
You and I know what the etymology of these names are. The reason they sound familiar, is yes, it’s because we all know who and what they were named after. Filipinos are famed for their puns after all.( The addition of the letter “w” is entirely my own whimsy, in tribute to an officemate’s fondness for pronouncing every word with an “o” with a long “o” (e.g., sowsyal, towgeh, lowmpyah)). All these little monickers are just an expression of the populace’s love affair with these wonderful lifesavers.
Their loyal patrons know these Jowllijeeps and their Jowllibags like the back of their hands.
In fact, to my surprise, after talking to my some-time patron friend Awie, I learned that not all Jowllijeeps are created equal. Awie insists that some Jowllibags are tastier than others. How do you know, I asked him, when you have baon everyday?
You only need to eat it once to know better, he wisely points out.
That opened my eyes to the many other finer points of dining, Jowllijeep style.
Jowlijeeps offer comfort food. A typical outlet offers a very familiar menu. On any given day , chances are they will have rice and adobo, fried chicken, pancit canton, pancit bihon, tocino, liempo, longganisa, fried daing na bangus---all served hot, dripping in vegetable fat and more often than not, real greasy good. You can also expect lumpiang shanghai, lumpiang toge, lumpiang prito, pinakbet, menudo, sinigang, tinola and nilaga and sometimes even kaldereta and pochero.
But no, Virginia, they do not serve sushi and cheesecake in Jowllijeeps. And don’t ask for pasta, you dork, ask for spaghetti and you’ll get it, just don’t be alarmed at how orangey its tomato sauce color is.
Here’s another tip : when you order a Jowllijeep pochero, don’t expect the pochero your mom used to cook for you. The whole business philosophy behind an average Jowllijeep and Jowllibag’s offering is for each dish to look, smell and taste JUST enough like the one we’re familiar with . Everything should JUST be within an inch of the real thing. Let’s use pochero again as an example. The pochero of a regular Jowlijeep has just enough, but never too much, of the required distinguishing ingredients. So you can expect just a token or two of diced carrots and potatoes perhaps, and just enough tomato sauce in there and beef morsels, just so this Jowllijeep version can get away with calling itself pochero.
If a Jowllijeep pochero does not fulfill this very rigid taste test, then that Jowllijeep in question can kiss their patrons goodbye, for working people want value for their hard earned money. They will not hesitate to bring their patronage somewhere else, and in the case of the Jowllijeep patron, to the next Jowllijeep just a few paces down the street.
But again, some Jowllijeeps are better than others. Meaning, their food tastes great, and you won’t care that they cut corners somewhere in the ingredients list or that their food color is on the lurid side.. Once a Jowllijeep has earned a patron’s loyalty, such patrons will defend its cuisine to the death. Do not try to cast aspersions on their dishes, for their loyalists will not stop until they have the last word with you. They will extol the deliciousness of their favorite dish and honor the others they particularly delight with. But in the end, if you refuse to be convinced, in your face will they hurl a statement of such undeniable , incontestible truth, the ultimate argument that will shut you up.
Ano bang nirereklamo mo eh forty pesos lang to? Helllow????
Hello indeed.
A Jowllijeep is very accommodating. You can choose to eat sitting down, standing up or take out (when you choose take out, that ‘s when the Jowllibags come into play). In fact, whether your Jowllijeep is standing next to the street gutter, or to the creek that crosses various Makati streets, you can expect a horde of customers patiently waiting in line to get their orders. Or probably already starting on their next course, standing up.
Para diretso sa tyan, as another Jowlijeep patron-friend told me.
A Jowllijeep can sustain you , from breakfast till dinner, and even your snacks in between. For alongside the huge vats of ulam and kanin are baskets hanging by the counter window, containing snack and junk food of almost every kind. You can also have coffee, soda, an energy drink and juices and iced tea in can, tetra or doypack. And as for dessert , they have jars of candy and chocnut, gum and freshly cut pineapple, and some other fruits in season. If you know how to pick ‘em, you can definitely come away with the sweetest and choicest cuts.
And Jowllijeeps are the most dependable food outlets around. You can depend on them to cook banana cue or camote cue every afternoon in time for merienda,and to have pancit palabok , that orangey colored spaghetti and guinatan . And whatever the weather or time of day, and whether there is a rally for the administration (or against it ), whatever is happening in Makati or even in Malacanang, it will not rock the Jowllijeep establishment. You can expect the Jowllijeep dining experience to go on, the same way you can expect to find a stalwart of every Jowllijeep hanging from its little corner….a little icon that no self-respecting Jowllijeep can be found without : that cigarette lighter tied to a string right where a smoker-patron can spot it, without arousing the desire in that same patron to pocket that cigarette lighter. Reassuringly, there has been no rash and rush of thefts anyway involving cigarette lighters in our Jowllijeeps, even if a piece of string is the only deterrent to the commission of such a crime.
The mother in me had to wonder aloud to my officemate though. How clean is the food offered by these establishments?
My resource person and friend Awie scratched the back of his head. After all, he’s only bought pineapple from these Jowlijeeps, and you can count on one hand the number of times he’s bought ulam from them.(he’s more a member of the Baon Gang like me). But then, he does know everybody in the office who is a Jowllijeep patron, and he points them out, real people I know who have many times indulged in partaking of Jowllibags from Jowllijeeps.
Eh, buhay pa naman kami lahat hanggang ngayon.
What can you say to that?
Now, for the best kept secret on Jowlijeeps in Makati. The one that offers the best liempo, in huge , generous portions for the same reasonable price of forty pesos…. is the Jowllijeep standing on T- - - - - - - - Street. Awie held out both his hands to show me how big that liempo is supposed to be , and I must admit that I gasped in amazement. He also swears they’re really lip smacking good.
My baon bag will take the day off then tomorrow. Race you to that particular Jowllijeep.
I intend to take my liempo out with a Jowllibag. Be sure to leave that cigarette lighter hanging where you found it. Or else you’d be banned by the Society of Jowllijeep Patrons forever and ever, amen.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING DIRECTOR AND WRITER, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, TEXT 09205355053/09178411062.
Friday, May 22, 2009
article 22. sex is sacred
Because I Said So
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
(didn't want to wade into the same muck over the sex video scandal. didn't want to call people names ,too. hope i succeeded with this article.)
It was something my high school teacher told us, when we were but a group of very young impressionable teenagers, with newly awakened, raging hormones and with newly discovered, emerging sexualities. Most importantly, individually, we were all at the brink of having our very first taste of young love….and we were regaling our teacher with our singular experiences.
Which led her to make this very thought provoking statement.
What she said may have spelled the difference between us becoming promiscuous at a young age, or not. Maybe her words encouraged a lot of us into saving ourselves for our one true love, or again, maybe not.
But her words created such an impression on me.
And to this day, I voice it and I stand by it.
But don’t get me wrong. This article isn’t even about when one should have sex, whether young, old, single, married, etc.etc.etc.
The plain and simple fact for me is that the sanctity of sex stands by itself. It should be right up there with love, marriage, brotherhood, peace, morality, and everything else that should be given respect.
Of course we all know that both men and women have used sex as a weapon. Let he or she who is without fault cast the first stone.
I remember in particular one very worldly batchmate who even back then was already oozing with sex appeal. She had no compunction in using sex to get what she wanted with her boyfriends.
That was the first time I realized that literally and figuratively, sex does sell.
On a lighter vein, one aunt of mine even told me that a wife can withhold her husband’s marital privileges when he won’t see things the way the wife wants him to. My aunt even winked at me, whispering , have him realize that it doesn’t come with the territory. That it’s not a given. Hmmmmmm, I answered her.
(And we wonder why there is politics in the bedroom? As an aside, I must admit, I can never look at my aunt’s husband the same way ever again!!!)
Another male confidant of mine honestly feels that his girlfriends having sex with him is their only way of proving their love.
Huh?
That’s like holding a gun to someone’s head in my opinion, I told him. And even as he kept explaining that it’s a guy thing, I told him to his face that he is a Neanderthal, an idiot , immature and manipulative. He had the grace to look ashamed.
Sex figures in a major way in any relationship.
A lot of us take it lightly and use it as a crutch, a tool, an agenda, and when we do, we demean it and reduce it to the physical act.
We use sex as a crutch when we believe it to be some kind of a quick fix, a pick-me-upper, a means to be happy and feel good about ourselves.
This has some kind of scientific basis because we know that the physical act itself results in the body producing endorphins. Google endorphins in the web and you will read that they naturally help lower our stress levels , help boost our confidence,and can even calm the high strung and the angstsy among us. Remember that movie, Postcards from the Edge where Annette Bening’s character was talking to Meryl Streep whose role was that of a drug dependent actress-daughter of a fading star? Ms. Bening said something like how she loves getting that ENDOLPHIN RUSH, or as she laughingly corrected herself, ENDORPHIN. That was the first time I ever heard that word in a movie, but that is an example of how sex is used for instant gratification and nothing more.
Just to make you feel good. The whole point is you, your partner doesn’t even figure. End of conversation.
And don’t get me started on how sex can be a tool…the most important item on one’s agenda.
How many movie stars landed plum roles because of the casting couch? That’s sex at work again.
How many fat contracts are won in the boudoir ? You’re right , sex must have had a hand in a lot of them too.
But thankfully, without being smug or self righteous about it, we know that sex can be wonderful. Sex being the physical side of love enables us to make the intangible, tangible. Or vice versa.
It is precisely during these times when sex is treated as sacred does it become the most sublime expression of love.
As a married woman, rightly or wrongly I cannot help but speak of sex and love in the same breath. I totally believe that the purest kind of love is unconditional. It’s the love you give a baby. You have no expectations of getting anything in return, you just give it all you ‘ve got.
And unless you didn’t notice, pay attention to how that baby receives your love. With no qualms, no excuses, no doubts, no regrets. Taken totally at face value, completely, without question. That’s love in return.
And maybe that is the exact reason why sex is indeed sacred, it’s because love is in the picture. It’s only then that it becomes the most wonderful , uplifting , joyous union. It becomes a complete surrender of your self, it’s revealing your person at your most vulnerable, and you give---and get, total trust and commitment knowing fully well that your partner is as vulnerable, loving, trusting and committed as you are.
Poets and mystics have gone as far as saying that having sex and love is like seeing the face of God. My own husband simplistically says that the whole point to marriage is having children, a way by which we are blessed with the power to participate in God’s wonderful act of creation. (I took one look at him, and asked, who are you and what have you done with my husband ??? )
Which brings me back to my point: Sex is indeed sacred.
So sacred in fact that you do it to express your most profound feeling of love for another person.
So sacred in fact that you give yourself fully, completely, having no second thoughts nor doubts that the other person will keep the intimacy just between the two of you, and will never kiss and tell , never blab about your secrets or your weaknesses, and will never treat you as an object.
Sex is sacred.
It is the reason why it is the most intimate, private relationship , the most expressive way you can make another person feel your affection and love .Again, I cannot say it enough, it is a complete surrender of oneself, a testament of trust and commitment.
Debase it and you debase yourself.
And so far, the lowest form of debasement I’ve ever encountered is when just lately, someone ( or maybe there was more than just one person ) uploaded a supposedly sacred and private act on the internet--- for all the world to see, barring none, not even the young, the perverts, the holier-than-thou’s and the ambulance chasers. That person posted it and left it for everyone to ridicule, judge and ogle.
And only that person alone would know why he or she did it, whether to use it as a crutch, a tool, or a weapon. Certainly and obviously, it was not to make the point that sex is sacred.
I wonder if it’s too late for him (or her) to meet my high school teacher.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, PLEASE TEXT 09205355053.
By Boots Ma. Garcia-Sison
(didn't want to wade into the same muck over the sex video scandal. didn't want to call people names ,too. hope i succeeded with this article.)
It was something my high school teacher told us, when we were but a group of very young impressionable teenagers, with newly awakened, raging hormones and with newly discovered, emerging sexualities. Most importantly, individually, we were all at the brink of having our very first taste of young love….and we were regaling our teacher with our singular experiences.
Which led her to make this very thought provoking statement.
What she said may have spelled the difference between us becoming promiscuous at a young age, or not. Maybe her words encouraged a lot of us into saving ourselves for our one true love, or again, maybe not.
But her words created such an impression on me.
And to this day, I voice it and I stand by it.
But don’t get me wrong. This article isn’t even about when one should have sex, whether young, old, single, married, etc.etc.etc.
The plain and simple fact for me is that the sanctity of sex stands by itself. It should be right up there with love, marriage, brotherhood, peace, morality, and everything else that should be given respect.
Of course we all know that both men and women have used sex as a weapon. Let he or she who is without fault cast the first stone.
I remember in particular one very worldly batchmate who even back then was already oozing with sex appeal. She had no compunction in using sex to get what she wanted with her boyfriends.
That was the first time I realized that literally and figuratively, sex does sell.
On a lighter vein, one aunt of mine even told me that a wife can withhold her husband’s marital privileges when he won’t see things the way the wife wants him to. My aunt even winked at me, whispering , have him realize that it doesn’t come with the territory. That it’s not a given. Hmmmmmm, I answered her.
(And we wonder why there is politics in the bedroom? As an aside, I must admit, I can never look at my aunt’s husband the same way ever again!!!)
Another male confidant of mine honestly feels that his girlfriends having sex with him is their only way of proving their love.
Huh?
That’s like holding a gun to someone’s head in my opinion, I told him. And even as he kept explaining that it’s a guy thing, I told him to his face that he is a Neanderthal, an idiot , immature and manipulative. He had the grace to look ashamed.
Sex figures in a major way in any relationship.
A lot of us take it lightly and use it as a crutch, a tool, an agenda, and when we do, we demean it and reduce it to the physical act.
We use sex as a crutch when we believe it to be some kind of a quick fix, a pick-me-upper, a means to be happy and feel good about ourselves.
This has some kind of scientific basis because we know that the physical act itself results in the body producing endorphins. Google endorphins in the web and you will read that they naturally help lower our stress levels , help boost our confidence,and can even calm the high strung and the angstsy among us. Remember that movie, Postcards from the Edge where Annette Bening’s character was talking to Meryl Streep whose role was that of a drug dependent actress-daughter of a fading star? Ms. Bening said something like how she loves getting that ENDOLPHIN RUSH, or as she laughingly corrected herself, ENDORPHIN. That was the first time I ever heard that word in a movie, but that is an example of how sex is used for instant gratification and nothing more.
Just to make you feel good. The whole point is you, your partner doesn’t even figure. End of conversation.
And don’t get me started on how sex can be a tool…the most important item on one’s agenda.
How many movie stars landed plum roles because of the casting couch? That’s sex at work again.
How many fat contracts are won in the boudoir ? You’re right , sex must have had a hand in a lot of them too.
But thankfully, without being smug or self righteous about it, we know that sex can be wonderful. Sex being the physical side of love enables us to make the intangible, tangible. Or vice versa.
It is precisely during these times when sex is treated as sacred does it become the most sublime expression of love.
As a married woman, rightly or wrongly I cannot help but speak of sex and love in the same breath. I totally believe that the purest kind of love is unconditional. It’s the love you give a baby. You have no expectations of getting anything in return, you just give it all you ‘ve got.
And unless you didn’t notice, pay attention to how that baby receives your love. With no qualms, no excuses, no doubts, no regrets. Taken totally at face value, completely, without question. That’s love in return.
And maybe that is the exact reason why sex is indeed sacred, it’s because love is in the picture. It’s only then that it becomes the most wonderful , uplifting , joyous union. It becomes a complete surrender of your self, it’s revealing your person at your most vulnerable, and you give---and get, total trust and commitment knowing fully well that your partner is as vulnerable, loving, trusting and committed as you are.
Poets and mystics have gone as far as saying that having sex and love is like seeing the face of God. My own husband simplistically says that the whole point to marriage is having children, a way by which we are blessed with the power to participate in God’s wonderful act of creation. (I took one look at him, and asked, who are you and what have you done with my husband ??? )
Which brings me back to my point: Sex is indeed sacred.
So sacred in fact that you do it to express your most profound feeling of love for another person.
So sacred in fact that you give yourself fully, completely, having no second thoughts nor doubts that the other person will keep the intimacy just between the two of you, and will never kiss and tell , never blab about your secrets or your weaknesses, and will never treat you as an object.
Sex is sacred.
It is the reason why it is the most intimate, private relationship , the most expressive way you can make another person feel your affection and love .Again, I cannot say it enough, it is a complete surrender of oneself, a testament of trust and commitment.
Debase it and you debase yourself.
And so far, the lowest form of debasement I’ve ever encountered is when just lately, someone ( or maybe there was more than just one person ) uploaded a supposedly sacred and private act on the internet--- for all the world to see, barring none, not even the young, the perverts, the holier-than-thou’s and the ambulance chasers. That person posted it and left it for everyone to ridicule, judge and ogle.
And only that person alone would know why he or she did it, whether to use it as a crutch, a tool, or a weapon. Certainly and obviously, it was not to make the point that sex is sacred.
I wonder if it’s too late for him (or her) to meet my high school teacher.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR , MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER TWELVE YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME. FOR COMMENTS, PLEASE TEXT 09205355053.
article 7. What they don't show you in those soccer commercials...
BECAUSE I SAID SO
By BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON
Soccer is one of the most glamorized sports on TV, on ads and more so, in the movies. We have Beckham and company to thank for that, and way before them, there was Pele, who was actually a god amongst ordinary mortals. Pele reinvented soccer. He defied gravity way before even the term Air Jordan was coined. He could leap into midair, flip and twist and kick, delivering the “scissor” flawlessly ---a kick that my eleven year-old son gushes about and wishes he can already execute. I must admit I dread the day.
But he’s working at it. Has been since day one. For the fifth year running, my son has enrolled in soccer summer camp. During the school year, he juggles schoolwork and soccer varsity and a million other chores and projects. But still, after a long, hard year , when summer comes, instead of looking forward to long , lazy days of doing nothing, he lives for the day when summer soccer camp begins. And to top it--- as if waking up at 5am for training every morning from this day forward until the end of April is not enough --- he had to enroll in another soccer school too, so that his Wednesday and Friday afternoons are also spent playing his most favorite game. Two soccer camps --- ergo , twice the torture, twice the sacrifice, twice the pressure ---on us , his parents ( but then, on my son’s part, soccer can never be torture, sacrifice or pressure--- to him, playing soccer is pure joy).
But that brings me to my point. That’s what they don’t show you in those glamorous soccer commercials! During every young athlete’s training day, which always starts at unholy hours in the morning --- right there on the sidelines are his first true fans : his parents. They look sleep –deprived and harassed and even sweatier than the players, and some of them don’t even look like they can throw a ball even if their lives depended on it, but hey, they’re there. Everyday. Not just during the actual competition when it’s time to bring home the trophy.
That’s the easy part. It’s the everyday that ‘s harder, for that is definitely seven times the commitment.
And I have totally seen very committed parents.
Whether they are parents who may be living their own soccer dreams through their sons (like my husband)…or they are parents who may be imagining already the fame that their sons would have in the near future ( like myself), and even if these are the very same parents who maybe just a few hours earlier were praying for a miracle that would make their son change their minds about enrolling in soccer – again (like my husband and I) , these parents never waver in their commitment. As they gave in to the relentless cajoling, whining , pleading and bargaining that only a very determined young soccer player can unleash, knowingly they gave up hopes of ever having late morning breakfasts in bed again , or even of just sleeping in, or having a relaxed drive to work in the morning. It means rearranging your schedules like your meetings and your lunches ,it means even postponing your own birthdays and anniversaries in case a game falls on the same day. You moan and you complain ---for you definitely had your own ideas on how to spend your summer ---but still, there you are in the bleachers in front of the soccer field smiling at the sight of your kid, everyday.
One of us should always be there to drop him off , and another one should pick him up on time. We have to keep track of orientations, festivals, extra practices, socials, etc.etc. It means straining the budget if need be, so that there will be enough to spare for soccer shoes, socks, goalie gloves, shin guards. For alongside the commitment is the sacrifice.
You’re a soccer mom and dad. Accept it, deal with it.
Believe me, you don’t want to miss a minute of it. You just have to be there. To see him kick a goal ( or…not) …to see him make the slide that steals the ball ( or… not)…for you to see the moment when he catches the kick that wins his team the game (--- or not).
Win or lose , you should be there. Show up. That’s the role of the parent : to show up , cheer and root and yell yourself hoarse. You should closely watch your son and memorize every move he makes, whether a good one or a decidedly wrong one. Because right after the game, believe me, he will ask if you saw him do this and that and that and this and you better be able to say yes, of course: I had my eyes on you.
Think of the Tiger Woods and his dad. He started his son early. Think of Michael Jordan and his old man. What age did their dads and moms stop being just plain parents and added groupie to their job descriptions?
We’ve been my son’s soccer groupies for the last 5 years.
And we’ve been together with other parents with soccer playing sons like ours all these years.
We’ve relished the rewards together. And I’m not just talking about the times I saw my own son made a goal kick successfully. Twice.( My hair all stood at their ends). Or the time our soccer players valiantly rallied and finally won. And more so, the times when they left the field heartbroken for coming so close to winning , but not close enough.
The reward also comes in the realization that it is easy enough for kids to enjoy soccer, or any game for that matter. They only need an adult who cares enough to let them play. And I was privileged to have my realization confirmed when a group of soccer players from Tondo started coming to our school.
It just so happens that some of our coaches share their time with these kids by coaching them in soccer. So even if
during the week, a good number of these Tondo kids pick up trash, sell plastic bags, run after jeeps and buses perhaps to sell cigarettes and newspapers, still one day a week, these coaches bring them over… and they play their hearts out.
Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose. Some of them are really skilled. Which is food for thought already, because they can’t have enough time for practice. And it’s really harder to play when you don’t have the gear. Plus when you’re worrying that the time you spend playing can be spent somewhere else , like at work.
But still. On the days they came to play, at that exact moment, the game is all theirs. Win or lose, they live for the game. And guess who’s right at the bleachers in front of them, rooting and yelling themselves hoarse.
Their own parents.
Which shows you that there’s not much diff between their parents and my own circle of soccer moms and dads. Admittedly, the Tondo kids far outnumber their parents who attend their games. They have fewer parents who can really spare time to go with the kids all the way to our school. But what matters is that still, the few mothers and the one or two fathers, plus their coaches who came with them are precisely there to enable the kids to play. These adults, parents all---they showed up, and they let the kids play.
In Victor Hugo’s great book, Les Miserables, Jean Valjean paid the Thernadiers gold to let Cosette play. And while she played , he stayed by her and watched her. As a true parent does. As these parents of Tondo do. As we do, too.
That is definitely something that should figure one day in a great commercial.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON has been an Advertising Creative Director for almost two decades. It was her son Anton, an eleven year old budding copywriter and commercial talent , who thought of her column’s name.
By BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON
Soccer is one of the most glamorized sports on TV, on ads and more so, in the movies. We have Beckham and company to thank for that, and way before them, there was Pele, who was actually a god amongst ordinary mortals. Pele reinvented soccer. He defied gravity way before even the term Air Jordan was coined. He could leap into midair, flip and twist and kick, delivering the “scissor” flawlessly ---a kick that my eleven year-old son gushes about and wishes he can already execute. I must admit I dread the day.
But he’s working at it. Has been since day one. For the fifth year running, my son has enrolled in soccer summer camp. During the school year, he juggles schoolwork and soccer varsity and a million other chores and projects. But still, after a long, hard year , when summer comes, instead of looking forward to long , lazy days of doing nothing, he lives for the day when summer soccer camp begins. And to top it--- as if waking up at 5am for training every morning from this day forward until the end of April is not enough --- he had to enroll in another soccer school too, so that his Wednesday and Friday afternoons are also spent playing his most favorite game. Two soccer camps --- ergo , twice the torture, twice the sacrifice, twice the pressure ---on us , his parents ( but then, on my son’s part, soccer can never be torture, sacrifice or pressure--- to him, playing soccer is pure joy).
But that brings me to my point. That’s what they don’t show you in those glamorous soccer commercials! During every young athlete’s training day, which always starts at unholy hours in the morning --- right there on the sidelines are his first true fans : his parents. They look sleep –deprived and harassed and even sweatier than the players, and some of them don’t even look like they can throw a ball even if their lives depended on it, but hey, they’re there. Everyday. Not just during the actual competition when it’s time to bring home the trophy.
That’s the easy part. It’s the everyday that ‘s harder, for that is definitely seven times the commitment.
And I have totally seen very committed parents.
Whether they are parents who may be living their own soccer dreams through their sons (like my husband)…or they are parents who may be imagining already the fame that their sons would have in the near future ( like myself), and even if these are the very same parents who maybe just a few hours earlier were praying for a miracle that would make their son change their minds about enrolling in soccer – again (like my husband and I) , these parents never waver in their commitment. As they gave in to the relentless cajoling, whining , pleading and bargaining that only a very determined young soccer player can unleash, knowingly they gave up hopes of ever having late morning breakfasts in bed again , or even of just sleeping in, or having a relaxed drive to work in the morning. It means rearranging your schedules like your meetings and your lunches ,it means even postponing your own birthdays and anniversaries in case a game falls on the same day. You moan and you complain ---for you definitely had your own ideas on how to spend your summer ---but still, there you are in the bleachers in front of the soccer field smiling at the sight of your kid, everyday.
One of us should always be there to drop him off , and another one should pick him up on time. We have to keep track of orientations, festivals, extra practices, socials, etc.etc. It means straining the budget if need be, so that there will be enough to spare for soccer shoes, socks, goalie gloves, shin guards. For alongside the commitment is the sacrifice.
You’re a soccer mom and dad. Accept it, deal with it.
Believe me, you don’t want to miss a minute of it. You just have to be there. To see him kick a goal ( or…not) …to see him make the slide that steals the ball ( or… not)…for you to see the moment when he catches the kick that wins his team the game (--- or not).
Win or lose , you should be there. Show up. That’s the role of the parent : to show up , cheer and root and yell yourself hoarse. You should closely watch your son and memorize every move he makes, whether a good one or a decidedly wrong one. Because right after the game, believe me, he will ask if you saw him do this and that and that and this and you better be able to say yes, of course: I had my eyes on you.
Think of the Tiger Woods and his dad. He started his son early. Think of Michael Jordan and his old man. What age did their dads and moms stop being just plain parents and added groupie to their job descriptions?
We’ve been my son’s soccer groupies for the last 5 years.
And we’ve been together with other parents with soccer playing sons like ours all these years.
We’ve relished the rewards together. And I’m not just talking about the times I saw my own son made a goal kick successfully. Twice.( My hair all stood at their ends). Or the time our soccer players valiantly rallied and finally won. And more so, the times when they left the field heartbroken for coming so close to winning , but not close enough.
The reward also comes in the realization that it is easy enough for kids to enjoy soccer, or any game for that matter. They only need an adult who cares enough to let them play. And I was privileged to have my realization confirmed when a group of soccer players from Tondo started coming to our school.
It just so happens that some of our coaches share their time with these kids by coaching them in soccer. So even if
during the week, a good number of these Tondo kids pick up trash, sell plastic bags, run after jeeps and buses perhaps to sell cigarettes and newspapers, still one day a week, these coaches bring them over… and they play their hearts out.
Sometimes they win and sometimes they lose. Some of them are really skilled. Which is food for thought already, because they can’t have enough time for practice. And it’s really harder to play when you don’t have the gear. Plus when you’re worrying that the time you spend playing can be spent somewhere else , like at work.
But still. On the days they came to play, at that exact moment, the game is all theirs. Win or lose, they live for the game. And guess who’s right at the bleachers in front of them, rooting and yelling themselves hoarse.
Their own parents.
Which shows you that there’s not much diff between their parents and my own circle of soccer moms and dads. Admittedly, the Tondo kids far outnumber their parents who attend their games. They have fewer parents who can really spare time to go with the kids all the way to our school. But what matters is that still, the few mothers and the one or two fathers, plus their coaches who came with them are precisely there to enable the kids to play. These adults, parents all---they showed up, and they let the kids play.
In Victor Hugo’s great book, Les Miserables, Jean Valjean paid the Thernadiers gold to let Cosette play. And while she played , he stayed by her and watched her. As a true parent does. As these parents of Tondo do. As we do, too.
That is definitely something that should figure one day in a great commercial.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON has been an Advertising Creative Director for almost two decades. It was her son Anton, an eleven year old budding copywriter and commercial talent , who thought of her column’s name.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
ARTICLE 16. A Wedding in the Rain...
It’s my sweet friend Ca’s wedding today.
For months, with her closest friends behind her and her husband- to- be in tow, she had art directed and styled her own wedding, the way she’s always envisioned it to be. All the commercials she’s written in her 9-year career in advertising will not hold a candle to this, her own personal mega-production. She had everything scripted, and everything will wonderfully fall into place… from the stars in her hair… to the stars in her eyes. But still, even the most well- rehearsed plays get glitches, and it seems that summer has decided to bow out way ahead of time, depriving Ca of a sunshine-dappled garden wedding. Still , we her friends are still praying for the sun to make an appearance today. But in case it doesn’t, I will just tell ca that maybe the rains serve as a gentle reminder -- to us all, and to her especially, that into one’s life---and marriage, a little rain does fall.
I know that the rains will not make Ca less beautiful on her wedding day. The same way that a little rain cannot undo a marriage.
Weddings bolster my belief in love. It restores my faith in everyone’s desire to find that one person to whom one will pledge one’s love and life to. Someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, or to paraphrase two great songs, to have someone to watch over, someone to love and feed and shelter, when you’re both 64 —or better yet, 104.
Weddings reaffirm my faith in hope.
At that point in the ceremony when the bride and groom say their I do’s, believing that their shared life with this person will be wonderful ---even if at the back of their minds, they fully accept that bad times may come (for don’t they all happen to everyone?), I smile and say to myself that well, that’s hope.
Right in front of everyone, they both publicly declare their intentions, part of which is to build a home with this other person --- who may one day prove to be different from that person they married, or will grow to become the opposite of the person they loved in the first place. Still, that’s hope.
And when they both pledge their love for the other person, knowing that they themselves may become different people down the road, that more than anything else, is hope.
One knows all these after having been married for sometime. Been there, done that, yet still at it. Luckily, and wonderfully, still to the same person all these time, even if we’ve grown so much all these years----happily, not apart.
Hope is the thing with feathers after all. It gives wings to dreams--- and what better dream than to live together happily with your spouse ---at least most of the time ----for ever after ?
That’s why you also put in more than 100% of yourself to make not just a wedding work, but more so a marriage.
Long after the wedding bells have stopped ringing, marriage is a live thing that has to be fed and nourished.
In fact, like other brides, Ca has already put in so much into her marriage from the way she poured her heart into her wedding preparations. I remember how she came back from somewhere one time, all sweaty and stressed, for she herself rushed to a store where she could get her dream souvenirs. I took one look at that bulky, huge package ---that must at least have been 5 kilos ( and she’s but a slip of a gir!) , and I imagined her lugging that box up the MRT station and down.
Triple A for effort!
But then, the efforts of both Rex and Ca to make this wedding a success are of course Herculean. Like any other couple facing matrimony, they had a hundred and one other errands and chores and decisions needing their attention before the wedding. But that image of Ca in my mind, lugging that 5 kilo box is my personal favorite. That alone already shows you that she’s made of sterner stuff. Which is a wonderful gift for her husband to be , and even more for the children their marriage will be blessed with.
Alongside that gift, I humbly offer the thought that fittingly, it’s not just the bride and the groom who have invested in this coming marriage. I think of Ca’s dear friends who flew in from the other side of the globe to be with the couple on this day, and equally precious friends and family who bent backwards to make this day the most special of days. They they too then bless this marriage with their gifts.
Ca told me hours before the wedding that she’s having the jitters. In fact, I am positive that she used the words “ nasusuka ako.” Derive comfort from this Woody Allen quip then, my friend which I paraphrase :
“I knew I was in love. Why? Well, first of all, I was very nauseous”. Your nausea, Ca, is love. And together with hope, they are the best reasons to get, and stay married.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
For months, with her closest friends behind her and her husband- to- be in tow, she had art directed and styled her own wedding, the way she’s always envisioned it to be. All the commercials she’s written in her 9-year career in advertising will not hold a candle to this, her own personal mega-production. She had everything scripted, and everything will wonderfully fall into place… from the stars in her hair… to the stars in her eyes. But still, even the most well- rehearsed plays get glitches, and it seems that summer has decided to bow out way ahead of time, depriving Ca of a sunshine-dappled garden wedding. Still , we her friends are still praying for the sun to make an appearance today. But in case it doesn’t, I will just tell ca that maybe the rains serve as a gentle reminder -- to us all, and to her especially, that into one’s life---and marriage, a little rain does fall.
I know that the rains will not make Ca less beautiful on her wedding day. The same way that a little rain cannot undo a marriage.
Weddings bolster my belief in love. It restores my faith in everyone’s desire to find that one person to whom one will pledge one’s love and life to. Someone to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, or to paraphrase two great songs, to have someone to watch over, someone to love and feed and shelter, when you’re both 64 —or better yet, 104.
Weddings reaffirm my faith in hope.
At that point in the ceremony when the bride and groom say their I do’s, believing that their shared life with this person will be wonderful ---even if at the back of their minds, they fully accept that bad times may come (for don’t they all happen to everyone?), I smile and say to myself that well, that’s hope.
Right in front of everyone, they both publicly declare their intentions, part of which is to build a home with this other person --- who may one day prove to be different from that person they married, or will grow to become the opposite of the person they loved in the first place. Still, that’s hope.
And when they both pledge their love for the other person, knowing that they themselves may become different people down the road, that more than anything else, is hope.
One knows all these after having been married for sometime. Been there, done that, yet still at it. Luckily, and wonderfully, still to the same person all these time, even if we’ve grown so much all these years----happily, not apart.
Hope is the thing with feathers after all. It gives wings to dreams--- and what better dream than to live together happily with your spouse ---at least most of the time ----for ever after ?
That’s why you also put in more than 100% of yourself to make not just a wedding work, but more so a marriage.
Long after the wedding bells have stopped ringing, marriage is a live thing that has to be fed and nourished.
In fact, like other brides, Ca has already put in so much into her marriage from the way she poured her heart into her wedding preparations. I remember how she came back from somewhere one time, all sweaty and stressed, for she herself rushed to a store where she could get her dream souvenirs. I took one look at that bulky, huge package ---that must at least have been 5 kilos ( and she’s but a slip of a gir!) , and I imagined her lugging that box up the MRT station and down.
Triple A for effort!
But then, the efforts of both Rex and Ca to make this wedding a success are of course Herculean. Like any other couple facing matrimony, they had a hundred and one other errands and chores and decisions needing their attention before the wedding. But that image of Ca in my mind, lugging that 5 kilo box is my personal favorite. That alone already shows you that she’s made of sterner stuff. Which is a wonderful gift for her husband to be , and even more for the children their marriage will be blessed with.
Alongside that gift, I humbly offer the thought that fittingly, it’s not just the bride and the groom who have invested in this coming marriage. I think of Ca’s dear friends who flew in from the other side of the globe to be with the couple on this day, and equally precious friends and family who bent backwards to make this day the most special of days. They they too then bless this marriage with their gifts.
Ca told me hours before the wedding that she’s having the jitters. In fact, I am positive that she used the words “ nasusuka ako.” Derive comfort from this Woody Allen quip then, my friend which I paraphrase :
“I knew I was in love. Why? Well, first of all, I was very nauseous”. Your nausea, Ca, is love. And together with hope, they are the best reasons to get, and stay married.
BOOTS MA. GARCIA-SISON IS A WIFE, MOTHER, DAUGHTER, SISTER, SOCCER GROUPIE AND ADVERTISING CREATIVE DIRECTOR, MORE ON SOME DAYS THAN OTHERS. IT WAS HER ELEVEN YEAR OLD SON WHO THOUGHT OF HER COLUMN’S NAME.
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